


if i die young

by handwrittenhello



Series: Birthday Fics [6]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Asphyxiation, Bathing/Washing, Buried Alive, Cuddling & Snuggling, Cults, F/M, Hair Washing, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Near Death Experiences, Paralysis, Protective Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Whump, Winter At Oxenfurt (The Witcher), but if you call it that yen will kill you, obligatory bath scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 12:54:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29350779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/handwrittenhello/pseuds/handwrittenhello
Summary: Jaskier doesn’tmeanto get in trouble. Trouble just sort of finds him. Like now, as a group of cultists prepare to sacrifice him to Lilit by burying him alive.Thank the gods that Yennefer is there to save him.
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: Birthday Fics [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2059878
Comments: 28
Kudos: 95





	if i die young

**Author's Note:**

  * For [teamfreehoodies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/teamfreehoodies/gifts).



> written for teamfreehoodies' birthday WAY BACK WHEN. will i ever finish a birthday fic on time? who knows. anyways, a thousand apologies for how late this is!

Jaskier doesn’t _mean_ to get in trouble. Trouble just sort of… finds him. And while that’s inconvenient, for sure, it _does_ make his life much more interesting. It was how he’d found Geralt, after all, and that had turned out to be the best decision of his life.

No, the trouble is, Geralt is at Kaer Morhen for the winter, miles and miles and _weeks_ away, and trouble has just found Jaskier _now,_ all alone, without even his lute as backup. _Probably should have told Priscilla where I was going,_ he muses glumly, watching the cultists engage in their strange rituals.

Really, there are a lot of things he should have done—should have minded his business, should have ignored the rumors of a cult gathering outside of Oxenfurt, should have taken something with him besides his notebook and quill when he went to investigate and gather possible song material.

 _Should’ve_ isn’t helping at all right now, though, as the lead cultist, the one with the very elaborate headgear, spots him peeking through the underbrush into their clearing.

“Intruder! Spy! Heretic!” he shrieks, and several cultists break from the chanting circle they’d been in, heading directly towards him. Jaskier can’t scramble backwards fast enough, his heels slipping uselessly in the soft soil, his notebook forgotten in his panic.

The cultists—who are _unbelievably_ strong, by the way, why the fuck do these cultists need to be built like goddamn bricklayers?—seize him by the arms, hoisting him upright and marching him into the circle.

“Really, gents, I think there’s been a mistake—” Jaskier tries to distract, but it’s no use. They sit him down on the stone altar in the center of the circle, still holding tight to his upper arms, should he try to run.

“Lilit has sent us a sacrifice,” the leader crows, “that we may honor her!”

“Excuse me,” Jaskier says, “sacrifice?” He doesn’t like the sound of that _at all._ He didn’t know this cult was the human sacrifice kind when he’d decided to take a peek.

“Bind him,” the leader instructs, and two more cultists approach with rope at the ready.

“Did you just have that?” Jaskier asks nonsensically, mind spinning with danger. “Listen, I think there’s been a mistake! I’m a professor at Oxenfurt, you see, and I was out here conducting some research—”

“His mouth, too,” the leader orders. “He shan’t ruin the ritual by running his mouth.”

Jaskier would reply to that, except he suddenly finds that a length of rope has been shoved into his mouth and secured behind his head, rendering him unable to form words. _Fuck._ His greatest weapon is and always has been his voice; without it, this situation is looking more and more dicey.

Wrists and ankles bound, gagged, and without even a shred of a plan, Jaskier begins to panic. He struggles against the grip of the cultists, throwing his head back and bashing one of them in the nose. The cultist stumbles backwards, and Jaskier feels the hand of the other cultist grow slack, and throws himself off the altar, feeling the rope rub his wrists raw as he fights to free himself.

“Stop him!” the leader shouts. “He mustn’t escape! We need him to complete the ritual!”

Jaskier struggles, and uses every trick he’s learned from his travels with Geralt, and actually manages to get a hand free. He starts to claw his way across the ground as fast as he can, crawling for his life, because like hell is he going to die a _human sacrifice._

The problem is that there are too many of them, even with one out of commission from the likely-broken nose Jaskier gave him. Hands close around his legs, yanking him backwards, back into the circle. _This is it,_ he thinks hysterically, _this is how I die._

Because now the cultists look truly terrifying, anger creasing their faces, and the leader has gotten a vial of something from somewhere—Jaskier doesn’t learn any more details as the vial is brought to his lips past the gag, leaving him coughing and sputtering as the liquid burns its way down his throat.

And then a terrifying chill spreads through his limbs, mere seconds after he chokes down the last of it, and everywhere the chill touches, he feels his nerves deadening, his body going numb, his struggles brought to a forceful end.

It’s some sort of paralyzing agent, it must be—perhaps arachas venom, which Geralt has told him burns and freezes as it goes. The witcher has suffered its effects many times—lately, Jaskier has been there to hold his hand and reassure him as the venom slowly makes its way through his system. Geralt hasn’t said anything about it, but Jaskier knows he appreciates the company, rather than lying alone in a dark cave somewhere, paralyzed and defenseless.

Jaskier wishes that Geralt were here now, to hold _his_ hand as the venom runs through him. And also to kill all of these shitty cultists, before they end up killing Jaskier.

Which he’s sure they will—after pouring the paralyzing agent down his throat, the cultists leave him lying there, staring up at the canopy of trees above him, and speak in hushed tones, so that even by straining to hear, Jaskier can’t make out what they’re saying.

He lies there, heart deceptively slow for how scared he is, wishing for someone, _anyone_ to come and rescue him.

But Geralt is in Kaer Morhen, and nobody else even knows he’s here, and he’s going to die here.

There’s a telltale _shick,_ the sound of metal striking earth—a spade, someone digging. Oh, gods. It’s his _grave_. They’re digging his grave right in front of him, right where he can hear it, but can’t lift a damn finger to do anything about it.

A strained whimper makes its way out of his throat, hot tears spilling over and running down his temples. It’s not a good way to go at all, crying and frozen as cultists sacrifice him, but he can’t stop himself.

The digging goes on, and on, and Jaskier can only watch the sun crawl across the sky, approaching sunset, until finally he hears the digging stop, and footsteps approach him.

“We start the ritual now,” the leader intones, and two cultists hoist his unresponsive body up, dragging him over to the freshly-dug grave.

Wait, fuck. Aren’t they—aren’t they going to kill him? He would ask, demand to know how he’ll die, as a last wish sort of thing, except he can’t get his tongue to cooperate, and the gag doubly ensures it.

He can only watch as they lower him into the grave, strangely gently, loosening the knots to remove his bonds and arranging his limbs just so.

When he’s positioned how they want him, they back off, and the leader clasps his hands, staring down at Jaskier. “We thank you, sacrifice, for your part in restoring life to the earth.” One of the cultists scoops up a shovelful of dirt and tosses it into the grave.

“We thank you, sacrifice, for your part in restoring life to the earth,” the leader chants again, and a different cultist throws a shovelful of dirt into the grave. They go like that, taking turns covering him in dirt and _thanking him,_ as if Jaskier is doing this willingly.

Shovelful after shovelful of dirt covers Jaskier, first his legs and feet, then slowly working its way up his chest, until it gets hard to breathe from the weight on his lungs. But he can’t even panic, can’t struggle to breathe in deep. All he can do is breathe more and more shallowly as the cultists bury him, hands and arms and neck all disappearing underneath the soft wet earth.

“We thank you, sacrifice…” And then the rest of the sentence is drowned out by the dirt suddenly covering his face, sifting into his ears and nose and mouth and eyes, his entire world going dark.

The weight on top of him gets heavier and heavier, crushing and all-encompassing, as if he’s sunk to the bottom of the very deepest seas, drowning in dirt.

He can’t breathe. His lungs stutter on the inhale, trying to inflate, but finding no air. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe.

His vision is going staticky, his entire body going numb. He’s going to be simply snuffed out of existence, like a candle wick pinched between two fingers. Easy, effortless, but anything but quick. No, he has to live out his last moments with a slow terror flooding his system, his only thoughts of how badly he needs to breathe.

His heart is pounding loudly, irregularly, the only thing he can hear his blood racing through his body in search of oxygen. It’s so loud, in fact, that at first he thinks he’s imagining it when he hears thumping coming from aboveground.

But he’s not imagining it—not unless the gods have taken pity on him and decided to grant him the irrational hope of a rescue, a final comfort in his last moments. He’s not imagining the way all of the dirt on top of him suddenly lifts into the air, one great slab of earth lifted and tossed aside. Light and air flood his small grave, and his eyes roll wildly in his head as he gasps in air. He can’t even register what’s just happened, beyond the fact that his body is now desperately, gratefully panting and coughing, dirt flecking his lips, that simple animal need overriding the paralytic in his blood.

Once he stabilizes enough to think thoughts beyond _needairneedairneedair,_ he realizes that someone has grabbed him by the upper arms and is dragging him ungainly backwards out of the hole in the earth.

“Work with me here, bard, I can’t do all the work,” a familiar voice gripes—feminine, annoyed, and what he would normally classify as terrifyingly icy—except now, she's his savior, and he’d never heard a more welcome sound.

She hauls his unresponsive yet trembling body up—is it a sign that the paralytic is wearing off? “Jaskier,” Yennefer says, “what the fuck is wrong with you?”

Of course he can’t answer, but she seems to realize this as she sits down, laying his head on her lap. He looks up into her eyes, seeing her soften as she recognizes the panic in his. “Oh. Well, I won’t leave you here, bard. Geralt would never forgive me,” she reassures him, and even though her words are nonchalant, Jaskier takes comfort in the fact that she’s willing to at all.

She even rests her hand on his head, softly combing the dirt out of it, though he’s sure it must be a right mess. But it gives her something to do while Jaskier slowly regains control of his body—first his toes tingle and twitch, then his fingers, numbness slowly dissipating as feeling works its way up from his extremities.

But with the paralyzing agent losing its grip, it means that the tremors, involuntary and suppressed before, are now wracking him with full force, a delayed panic response finally gripping his body.

“Shh, Jaskier, you’re fine now,” Yennefer says, voice firm. She continues to pet his head, occasionally brushing a finger down his cheek. The contact grounds him, reminds him that he’s not in danger of being crushed beneath the ground anymore. Tears spill over his cheeks, but this time of relief, rather than fear.

It’s utterly embarrassing to be breaking down in front of Yennefer like this, but he can’t stop himself. He almost _died,_ buried alive by cultists, forgotten in an unmarked grave.

“Where are you staying?” Yennefer cuts through his distress easily, and when Jaskier swallows his emotions, throat clicking, he finds that he can finally speak.

“Oxenfurt. Faculty rooms,” he croaks out, suddenly wary of her seeing the closest thing to a home he has. But it’s not as if he has any choice, not unless he wants to lie here on the forest floor until he regains enough strength to walk back.

Yennefer throws out her hands and a portal to his rooms appears, a fire springing merrily to life in the hearth. Jaskier struggles upwards, grateful that Yennefer doesn’t do him the indignity of carrying him through the portal.

Of course, he collapses as soon as he’s made it through, because his weakened muscles are still largely uncooperative. He at least manages to make it look like he planned it, landing in an almost-graceful heap in front of the fire. And, this way, he can pretend that the residual shivers are from the cold.

Yennefer closes the portal and sits down next to him, staring into the flames. They sit in silence but for the crackling and popping of the wood as it burns, one shaking and one still.

Eventually Yennefer huffs and stands, walking over to his bed and returning with a blanket, which she throws on top of him. “Stop that, it’s annoying,” she says, but there’s no real bite to it.

Jaskier, grateful, wraps the blanket around his shoulders with clumsy fingers, ignoring the knowledge that he’s dirtying it. When Yennefer sits back down, she’s close enough that their shoulders could touch if he leaned just the smallest bit towards her.

So he does, fairly confident that she won’t hex him for it. Their shoulders brush, and when she doesn’t pull away, he leans more solidly into her, even daring to tilt his head and lay it to rest it on her collarbone.

Her hand comes up, and for a second he thinks that she’s going to push him off—he already has excuses lined up—but instead, she rests it on the top of his head, fingers idly sifting through his hair.

His shaking slows to intermittent tremors, and then stops entirely, the adrenaline seeping out of his system. He yawns, a jaw-cracking thing, boneless in the face of exhaustion.

“What were you doing?” Yennefer asks, when she realizes that he’s calmed some. “I never underestimated your ability to get into trouble, but without Geralt?”

“He’s at Kaer Morhen for the winter. Witcher tradition, apparently,” Jaskier explains. “And in my defense, I didn’t _mean_ to end up… like that,” he finishes softly. “I just wanted the story, is all.”

Yennefer scoffs. “That was foolish,” she reprimands him. Jaskier curls in on himself, lifting his head away from her shoulder, but she keeps him in place with her hand on his head. “But brave, I suppose. No wonder you and Geralt get along so well.”

“Being a fool is part of a bard’s job description, and being brave is a requirement when one travels alongside a witcher. There’s no money to be made in a song that doesn’t have something real behind it.”

“Well, just be careful it doesn’t get you killed.”

“I have you to thank for that. What were you doing there, anyway?” Jaskier asks.

“The cult of Lilit is said to have life-giving powers,” Yennefer answers, which really isn’t an answer at all. Jaskier shivers at the phrase _life-giving,_ remembering the haunting chant that had accompanied his burial.

“If by life-giving you mean life- _sacrificing,”_ Jaskier responds. “But I’m guessing you didn’t get what you needed.”

“No.”

“…Sorry.” Jaskier can’t help but feel as if it’s his fault. Perhaps if he hadn’t blundered in…

“It was probably bullshit anyway,” Yennefer says, waving it off. “Besides, if it took a human sacrifice, it wouldn’t be worth it. Probably. Unless that sacrifice is an immensely annoying bard,” she teases.

“You rescued me, _witch_ , I see through your lies,” Jaskier fires back.

“I could put you right back under,” she threatens, but, feeling the way Jaskier tenses, is quick to correct it. “But I won’t, if only because I’m sure your ghost would haunt me relentlessly until I couldn’t get anything done.”

“I’d be the most annoying ghost,” Jaskier agrees. “You’d have to call a witcher to get rid of me.”

Yennefer wrinkles her nose. “Geralt would be insufferable.”

“I guess you’re stuck with me, then.”

“Terrible,” she deadpans. “Now, if you’re sufficiently warmed up, why don’t you call a bath? My arm is falling asleep.”

He could lie, could say that he needs a few more minutes in front of the fire—and he knows that she would let him get away with it. But the dirt is really starting to bother him, now, so he regretfully sits up and stretches. “Oh, alright.”

He stands and starts drawing a bath, only for Yennefer to call over from the hearth. “Don’t fill it up too much. I need a bath too, after lugging you around.”

“Oh? Will you be joining me?”

“That _is_ what I meant, yes.” She raises and eyebrow and looks over at him.

In response, he smiles. “Fine, as long as you keep the water warm.”

“Deal,” she agrees airily, and he turns his back so that she can disrobe. He busies himself filling the copper tub, adding in salts and scents as he pleases.

When the bath is ready, he ducks behind his screen to undress, regretfully tossing his dirt-encrusted clothes into a pile on the floor, to be thrown out. Shame, too; he’d liked that outfit. But even if he were able to get the dirt out, he knows he would never be able to wear it for the memories it would bring.

He hears Yennefer slip into the tub with a gentle splash of water, and quickly joins her, all his muscles relaxing when the water’s heat envelops him. He dozes as Yennefer washes, only rousing when she pokes him with her foot.

“Are you actually going to bathe, or are you just going to lie there and drown?”

“Mmph. Can’t be arsed,” he responds, not opening his eyes. Yennefer huffs, and he finds himself being pulled upwards, only for her to turn him around and lay him back against her. He’s confused, until she grabs the soap and begins to wash his hair. “Oh. Thank you.”

“Don’t get used to it. This is a one-time offer.”

“Well then, you’ll have to let me repay the favor at some point.”

“Maybe I will,” Yennefer hums, rinsing the last of the soap from his hair. “Now get out of the tub before you drown.”

“Alright, I’m going,” Jaskier gripes, shivering at the blast of cool air that greets him as he rises out of the tub. He’s quick to dress and climb in bed, though it’s still cold with the distinct lack of a blanket. He resorts to giving Yennefer puppy eyes until she notices how cold and sad he is.

“You’re so dramatic,” Yennefer sighs, rolling her eyes, but she summons a blanket for him. He snuggles up gratefully, then looks up in confusion as she walks away.

“Wait, where are you going?” he asks. “You don’t have to leave.” It sounds extremely pathetic when it comes out, but he can’t really bring himself to care.

“Do you need me to stay?” she asks neutrally. Jaskier squirms.

“If you have to be somewhere, then it’s fine, I don’t want to keep you…” he hedges.

“My plans for the day were thoroughly derailed as soon as I came across you,” Yennefer says drily, but she returns to the bed, nudging him to scoot over until there’s room for her to lie down next to him. “If you snore, I’ll make you a mute,” she threatens, and then closes her eyes.

Jaskier smiles and tucks an edge of the blanket around her. Her mouth quirks up at the edges, but she doesn’t say anything.

That’s alright. Sometimes words aren’t needed. Jaskier exhales and smiles, closing his eyes as well, and is quick to fall asleep.

When he wakes up, Yennefer is still there, and that’s all he could ever ask for.

**Author's Note:**

> Please take a minute to leave kudos or a comment if you liked it! also, come find me on [tumblr](https://handwrittenhello.tumblr/com)!


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